The Map

When the sun’s whiteness closes around us Like a noose, It is noon, and Molina squats In the uneven shade of an oleander. He unfolds a map and, with a pencil, Blackens Panama Into a bruise; He dots rain over Bogotá, the city of spiders, And x’s in a mountain range that climbs Like a thermometer Above the stone fence The old never thought to look over. A fog presses over Lima. Brazil is untangled of its rivers. Where there is a smudge, Snow has stitched its cold into the field. Where the river Orinoco cuts east, A new river rises nameless From the open grasses, And Molina calls it his place of birth.